At last, when he could stand it no longer, the dragon craned his neck and looked. There at the entrance of the cave stood a trembling young man in a suit of armor twice his size. He was struggling with a sword so heavy he could lift only one end of it at a time.

At sight of the dragon, the cobbler’s youngest son began to tremble so violently that his armor rattled like a house caving in. He heaved with all his might at the sword and got the handle up level with his chest, but even now the point was down in the dirt. As loudly and firmly as he could manage, the youngest son cried—

“What?” cried the dragon, flabbergasted.

“You? You? Murder Me???” All at once he began to laugh, pointing at the little cobbler’s son. “He he he ho ha!” he roared, shaking all over, and tears filled his eyes. “He he he ho ho ho ha ha!” laughed the dragon. He was laughing so hard he had to hang onto his sides. He fell off the door and landed on his back, still laughing, kicking his legs helplessly, rolling from side to side, laughing and laughing and laughing.

The cobbler’s son was annoyed. “I do come from the king to murder you,” he said. “A person doesn’t like to be laughed at for a thing like that.”

“He he he!” wailed the dragon, almost sobbing, gasping for breath. “Of course not, poor dear boy! But really, he he, the idea of it, ha ha ha! And that simply ridiculous poem!” Tears streamed from the dragon’s eyes and he lay on his back perfectly helpless with laughter.

“It’s a good poem,” said the cobbler’s youngest son loyally. “My father made it up.” And growing angrier he shouted, “I want you to stop that laughing, or I’ll—I’ll—” But the dragon could not stop for